


in the sycamore trees.

by LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch



Series: Tumblr Stuff [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Coda, Dean-Centric, Episode: s12e19 The Future - Mixtape Scene, Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Music, Post-Season/Series 12, Spoilers for Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-17 21:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch/pseuds/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch
Summary: Dean has secrets he kept for what feels like forever. His life is built around them, but now the walls come crumbling down.A story about mixtapes.





	in the sycamore trees.

**Author's Note:**

> In one of those tag games, @helianthus21 asked if I think that Dean has special mood music. And shortly before that @dixseptdixhuit told me about her new fic (which y'all should really check out) and I thought yes, he has.
> 
>  

 

Dad’s box with tapes is stuffed under the passenger seat. Dean rides shotgun like most of the time, and it is his duty to find the right tape when the current one has ended.

“Zep I”, John grumbles and Dean bends forward to retrieve the box.

He punches the button to eject the old tape, puts it into its case with the cardboard inlay covered in John’s neat handwriting and plucks the one his father ordered out of the meticulously organized collection to stick it into the old cassette deck. You have to do it with just the right pressure and swiftly; otherwise the player catches the tape and tangles it up. It has happened before and one of the tapes still bears the scars. John had hit him on the head and barked at him to treat his belongings with respect – how can I ever trust you to use a weapon if you can’t even manage the damn tape deck  – and tears had welled in the corners of Dean’s eyes but he had held them back and got the tape out of the player to carefully turn the spools with his finger until the shiny brown plastic was smooth again.

So he makes sure now to push the tape into the slot just right and only releases his breath when guitar and drums align to open _Good Times Bad Times_ and Robert Plant states that _In the days of my youth, I was told what it means to be a man_. John’s fingers twitch on the steering wheel. Dean leans back against the leather seat and turns his head to watch the land fly by.

xxx

John gave Dean his car, his leather jacket, his gun and his taste in music.

A man’s music.

The music of the road.

Songs about guns and fire, about sacrifices and adventures.

When Dean grows older, he sticks to that. Led Zeppelin stayed the Archimedean point of everything. Metallica, Creedence, the occasional power ballad – fine – but only by bands who kicked ass otherwise. He bonds with other hunters over it, and when he’s drunk off his ass, he sometimes tells the story how his mother and his dad met and bonded over music, too.

xxx

He finds the tape when he is maybe eight . John came back late from a hunt, bruised and bloody and carrying a bottle of cheap whisky that now stands half empty on the light green formica table. Dean can’t sleep anymore. He untangles himself from the sheets carefully to not wake Sammy and slips out of the room into the early morning light. The air is biting. The Impala waits around the corner and Dean crawls inside to wait for the sun to rise and chase away the cold.

He finds it next to the seat, deep down between the leather and the trim, and fumbles to get the case out. It’s broken in the middle but the tape is still intact. He turns it in his hands. _Mary’s Road Mix_ is written in broad letters over the label. No playlist in the case. Dean’s heart stops for a second before it picks up speed like a thunderstorm. He looks around, makes sure nobody sees him, and holds the tape in his palms as if it might vanish if he blinks.

xxx

The tape sits in his backpack for weeks. Dean takes it out late at night to look at the inconspicuous black plastic and wonder what’s on it. He should really tell John, show him the unexpected treasure. Maybe they could listen to it together. But Dean is selfish. John always tells him that. He doesn’t have to because Dean knows it’s true. Dean shares the pictures of mom with Sammy. He listens to the stories people tell him about his mother and nods as if it doesn’t rip him open every single time. He shares the silence with his father, the suffocating silence that follows whenever someone says her name.

He’s not ready to share this tape. With anyone.

xxx

It’s Sonny who gets him his first Walkman. Dean doesn’t know what to say. Sonny tells him he doesn’t have to say anything. Dean shakes his head because that must be wrong but his throat is tight and his mouth dry and the words don’t come out.

Sonny, with his open smile, reaches out to pat Dean’s head. Dean flinches before he can get his features under control. He doesn’t meet Sonny’s eyes but he can see the careful way in which Sonny takes back his hand as sadness washes the smile away, and Dean mumbles “Thank you” and turns to run back to his room.

The tape is at the bottom of his backpack, rolled in a threadbare orange motel towel, and Dean unwraps it with trembling hands. It’s dumb, he knows that, it’s only music. His mom just put together some songs because she liked to listen to them while driving. That doesn’t mean there’s a hidden message to him, woven between the songs.

He’s breathing shallowly now and opens the Walkman. Sonny already put some batteries in. Dean nestles the headphones on and plucks the cord into the right slot. There’s a little cog for the volume on the side and he turns it to somewhere in the middle.

His bottom lips hurts from biting it too hard. A tear falls down on the plastic case when the first song finally starts, and Dean closes his eyes.

xxx

John’s laugh booms through the bar, a dive next to the road in the middle of nowhere. Dean sits next to him with a warm beer between his hands. Sam’s asleep in the backseat outside. Dean fiddles with the bottle, then plucks a speck of reddish brown grime from under the nail of his right index finger. He killed his first vamp tonight.

The jukebox spits out the last note of a song and picks up the next. Dean’s chest constricts and he turns to look at his father, to see if he remembers, to see how he reacts. A morbid part of him wants to see John break and cry. Then maybe they could mourn together.

John grumbles something about _fucking girl’s music_ and orders another shot. Dean grunts in agreement, but he knows every line and every note by heart. He learns to hide how much it means to him, just like all the other things he hides from his father, and he gets so good at it that he’s not sure whatever he felt meant anything at all.

xxx

Dean makes copies over the years because the original tape aged and got brittle. He stashes the original in his box with personal stuff, under the pics and the letters, and keeps a copy with him. No tags.

xxx

“Oh come on, Dean, it can’t be that unbearable. You’re overcompensating. It’s not like you’ll grow long braided hair if you listen to one song.”

Dean reaches over and changes the channel.

“I bet you’d like it if you gave it a chance.” Sam grins over at him. Dean keeps his eyes on the road. He’s not sure if Sam just yanks his chain or if he really knows something. Kid always was too damn perceptive for his own good. When Dean doesn’t say anything, Sam sighs. “Whatever.“

xxx

Dean stares at the tape in Cas’ hand.

“It’s a gift. You keep those.”

His heart pounds in his chest and he can’t meet Cas’ eyes fully so he sets his gaze somewhere to Cas’ left. His chest constricts and he swallows the nagging question that kept him up for nights on end comes back. _I gave him the wrong one_ , he thinks, _and now it’s all going to shit_. It’s completely ridiculous because Cas won’t spot the difference, he apparently doesn’t even know what a mixtape _means_. Why should he care what’s on it.

xxx

Mary’s on the other side of the damn crack in the world.

Cas is … gone.

Jack’s in the back seat, sleeping. Sam’s head is tipped back when Dean opens the door and slips into the driver’s seat. The night is black and quiet around them. Dean starts the engine and for once, the deep rumble doesn’t soothe him, it doesn’t let the world fall away like it usually does. Dean fishes in the breast pocket of his jacket and fits the tape into the slot with just the right pressure.

Sam turns his head and Dean looks over briefly.  Sam obviously knows better than to say something and so he closes his eyes and leans against the door to get some sleep. The music swirls like pastels through the black car and the black night. Dean drives and listens. He even sings a line or two when’s he’s sure Sam’s fast asleep. The guitars and the piano and the strings tug on his heart with bittersweet melodies, and the voices, alone and in twos and threes and fours, sing about the dream of peace and unfulfilled love and finding happiness.

 _Stars fading but I linger on dear_ , Mama Cass Elliott chants, and Dean murmurs the words with her, not quite singing because his throat feels raw just like his mind, _still craving your kiss_.

xxx

xxx

In the lightless, toneless, lifeless vastness of the veil, time has no meaning. Cas floats in endless grey. The immeasurable nothing around him eats away small pieces of his self. He’ll wither away in indifference and to him, that’s somehow worse than stopping to exist.

Dean’s voice wafts over from the other side now and then, and Cas tries to hold on to it, hold on to the way it makes his heart ache and his soul flare, and he follows it like a beacon as if it might take him back home. Drifting, he hums along to the melody.

_But in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [procasdeanating ](www.procasdeanating.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Come say hi!


End file.
